You've Always Mattered
by dickgrysvn
Summary: How would a man like Sherlock, a self-proclaimed sociopath who claims to be devoided of human emotion, react to one of his closest friends going down in front of him? Just a short fic that came from a post that I made on my main blog a little while back. Enjoy! (Posted on Ao3 as "I Didn't Know I Mattered")


Work Text:

"Sherlock! Get down, he might start shooting aghh-"

Lestrade's sentence ends abruptly in a strangled gasp. Sherlock whirls around to face him, both staring at the pinprick of deep red against Lestrade's crisp white shirt. Sherlock's senses go into autopilot, his vision tunneling on Lestrade. He watches as his face contorts from a look of surprise to a grimace of pain, and, as if in slow motion, watches him crumple to the ground. Sherlock is frozen in place, blood rushing in his ears. He's vaguely aware of the sound of more gunshots, another cry of pain, and then John is kneeling by Lestrade. Sherlock is only shaken out of his daze by John's harsh voice.

"Sherlock! Call an ambulance. **_Now!_** "

Sherlock mindlessly takes out his phone and dials 999, slowly moving towards John and Lestrade. He wordlessly hands the phone to John, who takes it just as emergency services pick up.

"Um, yeah I have two men shot, one in and out of consciousness, other unknown. I need an ambulance here and officers. One of the men is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, he needs immediate assistance!"

Sherlock blocks the rest out as John tells their location. He stares down at Lestrade, not really seeing him. He thinks about what John had said. Needs immediate assistance. Was Lestrade… _dying_? Surely not! He'd always been there, he always would be. Wouldn't he? Sherlock is again pulled slightly out of his daze by John calling his name.

"Sherlock! Please, I need you to come back. I need you to take care of Greg while I go check on the shooter, alright?" he says gently. Sherlock nods once. He walks around to join John on Lestrade's right side, kneeling down as John stands up. "I just need you to keep constant pressure on the wound, ok? The ambulance will be here soon, and I'll be right back. Just keep pressure on it." With that he walks away to go check on the shooter. It must've been him Sherlock heard cry out the second time. Sherlock's blood begins to boil in a rush of anger.

 _John better have hurt him_ , he thinks.

He shakes his head again, stunned by that sudden thought.

He focuses his attention on Lestrade, and as soon as he does, all his senses come rushing back. His breath catches in his throat as he sees the blood-red stain spreading from just below Lestrade's right collarbone, spilling onto the pavement beneath him. Sherlock's usual calm composure is abandoned, and he desperately tries to fight the panic rising in his throat. Just then, Lestrade lets out a small groan, and Sherlock is pulled back into focus. He quickly yanks his scarf off, wadding it up and pressing it to the wound. He takes deep breaths, trying to compose himself. He needs to stay calm, for Lestrade's sake. Lestrade groans again, his eyelids fluttering slightly. Sherlock swallows the panic down again.

"It's-it's alright, Greg. You're going to be alright," he manages to stutter. Greg's eyes open halfway, and he turns his head slightly to look at Sherlock. "Greg, please, stay still. The ambulance is on it's way, alright?" Sherlock stutters again. Greg opens his mouth to speak, and his voice is barely audible.

"Sherlock? You-you remembered… you remembered my n-name. I didn't-I didn't know I mattered…" his voice trails off as he loses consciousness again. Just then, John comes back over, and Sherlock is suddenly aware of sirens approaching. Sherlock looks up at John's hard-set face as he crouches down next to Lestrade.

"The shooter?" he asks simply. John shakes his head.

"Dead."

Sherlock nods, his mouth set in a grim line.

 _Good_ , he thinks.

Just then the ambulance arrives, and John gets up to meet them. He tells them Greg's condition, and they rush over with a stretcher. Sherlock steps back as they hover around Lestrade, pressing on the wound and putting an oxygen mask on him. As they wheel him away, Sherlock moves to stand by John, his dazed state returning.

* * *

All the way to the hospital, he sees nothing but the bloodied scarf in his hands. Inside the hospital waiting room, his brain starts replaying Lestrade's voice in his head.

 _I didn't know I mattered… I didn't know I mattered… I didn't know I mattered…_

Sherlock finally just ignores it, curling up into the waiting room chair, scarf still in his hands.

* * *

When the nurse comes to tell them that Lestrade is out of surgery and that he's out of danger, Sherlock's been staring at his scarf for hours, curled up in that chair. John tried to get him to eat, to speak, to move even, anything. But Sherlock wouldn't budge. John has to shake Sherlock repeatedly to get his attention.

"Sherlock. Sherlock!" Sherlock sits up with a start, staring at John with wide eyes. John sighs, running his hand across his face. "Sherlock, Lestrade's out of surgery, he's gonna be alright. They said we can go see him, if you want," he says gently. Sherlock nods once and stands up. John gets up too, and the nurse tells them which room Greg is in. John thanks her, and leads Sherlock down the hall and to the lift. Inside, he glances at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, are you alright? You haven't said a word since we got here. What is it?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath.

"It's-" he pauses briefly before continuing. "It's just something Greg said while he was in and out of consciousness." John stares at him. Sherlock rolls his eyes, huffing. "Yes, John, I know his name, alright?" John just stares at him some more, eyes wide. Sherlock sighs again. Thankfully, the lift doors open just then, and he swiftly steps out into the hallway. He quietly heads down the hall to 205, stopping in front of the door. He hesitates for a second, but he quickly recovers. He opens the door slowly and steps inside, John following.

Greg is lying on the bed, eyes closed. He seems to be sleeping, the slow beep of his heart monitor the only other noise besides his steady breathing. John and Sherlock sit down in the chairs, one either side of the bed. Sherlock stares at Greg's face. It looks so peaceful. Suddenly, his eyelids flicker open.

"John? Sherlock?" he croaks out, slowly glancing back and forth between them. "You didn't have to be here, you know," he says gruffly. John chuckles.

"Of course we did, you bloody idjit. You're our friend, Greg. Of course we'd be here for you," he says with a smirk. Greg smiles softly. He turns to find Sherlock staring at him intensely. Greg opens his mouth to speak.

"Sherlock, I-" He's cut off by Sherlock's sudden words.

"You've always mattered, Greg," he says, almost imperceptibly. Greg stares blankly at him for a second, until suddenly it registers. His eyes widen in shock, and his mouth hangs open slightly. John is just as stunned, eyes switching between the two rapidly. Sherlock fidgets in his chair, struggling to look directly at Greg. "I-I may not always…act…like I appreciate you," he continues in a low voice, "but you've always mattered. Always. Whether I realized it or not. And you always will." His voice grows in strength with each word, and by the end of his speech he's staring straight at Greg. Greg slowly blinks, still stunned.

"Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you," he finally says with a soft smile. Sherlock relaxes, and he can't help but smile back. It feels good to tell people things, sometimes.


End file.
